What Once Was
by Farbauti
Summary: Loki is shoved down to Midgard, body broken and magick forgotten. He is delivered to S.H.I.E.L.D, plus a very {Un}welcome addition. However, his reasons for being cast out -along with what he'd been through before- may prove Loki's instability, though he is thrown into the real world. FrostIron, set before Iron Man, Avengers, etc. (WARNING SELF HARM/ CHARACTER DEATH GRUESOME STUFF)
1. The Beginning

Prologue

Wavering silence, bitter nightmares with voiceless screams and calling from those whom I never knew. I wonder often as I wake where this recurring image comes from, for I have never met any one of these entities of my mind.

Once they approach, they never disappear.

And endless loop, a fading echo in the depths of my mind, where I used to slip away when those around me caused me strife.

A strip of red churning with black, a darkness not only creeping into my mind, but my body, my blood.

Hysteria is rising.

Yet this feels more than some simple tag, some little sickness of the mind.

It feels like possession.

Am I being possessed by the voices I hear in the waking world, as well as the sleeping?

Or is it something more? Something bigger? Something so big that these images are only a test before my mind falters and I become nothing but a sorrowful creature, ripped to shreds by some unknown… _thing_?

* * *

I wake with a start, panic riddling through me. I look around the vast corners of my living quarters, willing the bleary shapes to some-how make some sort of sense to me. I blink, once, twice, thrice, and, though blurriness still tints the edges of my vision, I can make out in the dark the sparse amount of adornments that are littered around my room. I move, the sweet feeling of the fabric of my bed wrapping light tendrils around my body, telling me to return to sleep.

But as much as I'd like to, I know I can-not. I can-not slip once more into unconsciousness because if I do, I am sure to sink into the madness of my dream world. I slide out of my bed and, with a slight flick of my wrist, make the bed-sheets return to the way they were before I allowed myself the briefest of rests. I drop my robe as I approach the vast closet and use my finger to make the article of clothing float –as if weightlessly- behind me. I open the big, ornate doors marking my closet and find a simple dark green undershirt and black pants and quickly slip them on. My dressing robe goes down a gap in my wall, sending it to some servant who cleans it.

After I dress in the simple clothes, I begin pulling on my true clothing, adorned with many different dark straps holding naught but holsters for whatever I so believe shall belong there. A golden -necklace of sorts- sits on my collarbone, crafted so that it would never fall, no matter how much I should jump or jostle it, as if the piece would be forever attached to my shirt and under, my skin.

I pull on my boots after I have made sure my overcoat is properly on, tightening them where the buckles would have loosened from the last time I had worn them. I know I should not be wearing my full attire, seeing as though no-one would be awake at this hour, yet it provided me with more protection than my simple robe, which harboured nothing beneath it but my trousers. I make sure my hair is not in disarray with a hand, pleased at only having to fix small parts. Never would one of the crown princes of Asgard leave his quarters unprepared for any such ambush from an insomniac other.

And I supposed I was one crown prince, though not truly. It never felt right for me on the throne; to look down at so many others and harbour the power to control them was not the… _rightest_ thing in my mind. Not that I didn't want that, because I did. However, as I look at those who pass me by, I briefly wonder if they are truly _my_ people. I wonder, day in and out, and I find that these thoughts are preposterous. What else could I be, if not Asgardian? Surely not a Frost Giant. Surely not a Midgardian. Surely not…

I shake my head as I try to prove myself right inside of my own mind, then close the doors to my wardrobe and head towards the ones near my bed. I take a long, forlorn look at my bed, wishing I could sleep and escape the nightmares. I leave my quarters, knowing I can-not. Lightly I shut the doors, despite knowing Thor can sleep through anything, and that Odin can-not bring himself to care of some simple door closing, especially not the door to the rooms of his youngest son. His weakest son.

His son that was not born with muscles and the ability to hold the mighty hammer Mjølnir, but born tall and lanky, wielding only magickal weapons and having the power of sorcery so strong, Odin wouldn't be able to handle it on his best day. I know I should have been more eager to know of my powers, yet I felt that Thor, with his arrogance and brashness, Thor with his brawn and ability to smash through whatever was thrown at him was the favoured son. And with those thoughts, I feel jealousy writhe gently in the lining of my stomach, a serpent of wicked evils ready to sink it's fangs into anything it saw.

And bite it does.

As the jealousy wells up, hatred follows in its wake.

A hatred so dark, my eyes begin hazing with red, rage filling my insides with a fire I never knew I possessed. Waves of magick roll from my body, and I bite my lip, nearly hard enough to draw blood. Now is not the time for me to throw some "magickal fit", as Thor put it. I will myself calm and continue forward, my light footsteps sounding loud in this empty hallway. I wonder what I'll do until everyone else wakes, wonder how the day will go.

No doubt it would be boring, as always, listening to the incessant ramblings of my brother as he weaves tales about adventures long-since past their telling date, or about his eagerness to destroy some-thing, some-where. I could never quite understand how he got to be so idiotic now. Before he seemed to show intelligence, but only now he shows his willingness to be that brave child, the one who laps at the feet of his father, waiting for the next command.

I wonder if I will be getting any-thing besides boring little missions, being a messenger or aiding those in need in some petty battle I could easily win with my eyes closed. As I near the end of the hall-way, I am greeted with soft murmurs, which, considering the hour is extremely rare.

And as I enter the dining hall, I know I am in some sort of trouble. Neither Odin nor Thor are to be seen, and I feel a deep, uneasy feeling spark inside me, sending cold rushes licking through my veins. Angry eyes regard me as I step closer, and I can feel mine involuntarily widen, as if I allow my body to control itself. I attempt to regain control, to pull myself back, to _just stop walking towards the angry-looking mob _but I find I am unable to. I curse my disobedient body, and only when I do so do I finally halt.

"Loki," one came forth, golden tinted eyes trained on me.

I calm myself internally and externally before I reply. "Yes?"

"You're up early," the other says icily, regarding me with a suspicious stare.

But of course, he suspects I will prank him. As does everyone_. Come to think of it_, I muse, a smile etching itself into the corners of my mouth, _I should do exactly that later on._ "Might you take into consideration that I am always awake at this hour?" I ask, an eyebrow rising as if to emphasise my query.

This takes the other Asgardian aback, and he frowns. "Are you, truly?"

"Is this honestly going to be 'interrogate the prince' hour? Because if so, might I be allowed to obtain a bite to eat? I am truly famished." I walk past the angry crowd and grab myself a slice of fluffy alabaster bread, then nibble softly at the crust before getting to the centre, the centre that seems to melt on my tongue the moment it hits the muscle.

The golden-eyed Asgardian growls softly, and I allow myself to laugh at the show of what appears to be animalistic anger. "Is there something I must aid you in, my friend? Or are you going to continue to attempt to stare holes through me as I indulge myself?" I ask, finishing off the slice of bread in my hands. I reach down to grab another, letting my thumbs lightly track against the bread's soft contours before taking a bite out of it as I did with its other.

"We have come to deliver upon you a punishment rightful for one of your stature."

"Punishment rightful for my stature you say? And what, pray tell, might that be?" I bite, taking the bait. I can't allow them to see how fearful I am, so carefree is naturally my second choice.

Unfortunately, they see right through that.

The group advances towards me, eyes blazing with rage. "For everything you've done to wrong the citizens of Asgard, Loki."

I let the soft bread slip from my fingertips, my face contorting in a quiet rage.

In fact, it seems to merge with the feelings I'd had before seeing these people, and I feeel my fingers curl into fists. "And who exactly is going to punish me? You?" I laugh, a bitter sound that scratches its way up my throat. I am angry, impossibly angry now, and it shows. My hands begin to glow as magick envelops them. My eyes are glowing now, too, a deep emerald that is hazed by faint touches of black that only seem to make me look angrier. "Advance, then. Deliver upon me the punishment you feel I _deserve. _Do so and remind yourself that you are naught but an underling to me. Easily replaceable." My words drip with venom, but I am far beyond caring now.

And advance the group does. However, before I can even flick my wrist, something clamps down, hard and cold onto my wrist. The magick diminishes, fading away to only a wisp around my right hand. Likewise has occurred to the other, and I realise with a sick dread that these are Odincuffs, created to dull magick, almost wipe it from inside the wielder's body altogether.

I hiss in annoyance and clasp both of my hands together before rearing to the side and use blunt force to knock back several of the Asgardians surrounding me. The few that still stand hold my arms behind my back, and I writhe, as if I were some small, weak little creature attempting futilely to escape from something I know I can-not.

A question echoes in my mind, pulsing with curiosity like it wants to burst forth from my lips. I almost allow myself to speak it aloud before I am hefted up and carried towards an exit. It is my turn to growl, and that I do, knocking away a few of my persecutors with my feet as I do so. Bindings are shackled around my ankles now, and I howl with frustration. But with sickening dread I realise they are carrying me to the Bifrost.

"Do you not realise I will regain my magickal abilities once you drop me onto whichever realm?" I ask through gritted teeth as I squirm some more. The golden eyed individual grunts out what seems to be a chortle.

"Not unless you lose your memory in the process. And for that, Heimdall has humbly agreed to help."

My heart sinks, and dread sends icy fingers sliding down my spine. _Even Heimdall?_ I ask myself, a whisper in my own mind as we near the Bifrost. I am cast unceremoniously to the ground by those who hefted my wriggling body through the golden city of Asgard.

"Greetings, little prince." Heimdall says, his voice softer than his demeanour and his outward appearance.

Fear has gutted me once more.

I know now that I can-not escape. I manage a wry smile as he nears me. "Who knew you had this sort of power, gatekeeper." And then my smile temporarily shifts as my face becomes a mask of worry. "Do Odin and Thor know…?"

"No, nor should they." He kneels before me and gives my side an awkward pat before standing and lowering his mighty sword into the Bifrost's keyhole. The ones who brought me here stand outside of the Bifrost, so they can-not hear what the gatekeeper says to me. "I shall wipe none of your memories, young prince, though the force of the impact should clear your mind of the ability to use magick. This is for your own good, prince."

He pushes his blade deeper into the keyhole, and I am sent down the fast beam of light to some realm. My destination is still unknown to me, but I refuse to care. My screams of anger tinged with fear echo throughout the whole duration. Dread suddenly slides through me, as though ice has been injected in my veins as I notice that the beam of light cuts off halfway through, and I am free falling at an impossible speed towards the ground. My screams of anger become those of fear and are cut off by the loud _thud_ my body makes as it hits the soil of my landing spot. A few sickening crunches make me flinch as my vision blurs.

I can taste the blood as it flows past my teeth and onto the ground beneath my broken body. I can briefly sense something approaching me.

I close my eyes, a light source making me see red. Voices surround me, yet I am losing consciousness too fast to attempt to understand their words. Something touches me. Pain is everywhere.

And then, there is only darkness.

* * *

_**New story, having fun with the POV change. Hope you all enjoy this as much as I did, writing it! Mwaaah~**_


	2. Relentless

I regain consciousness after what feels like only a meagre amount of heartbeats –seeing as though I've nothing else to pass the time with, not knowing my realm, nor the time –the passing of, more like- in whatever realm I have been cast down to- to some sort of room which seems to be adorned with blinding lights. I don't open my eyes, yet I can feel the ruthless light penetrating even behind the skin on my eyelids. I shift, and warrant myself a small, painful grunt.

It seems as though those who have taken me captive have disregarded any means of healing me. Appallingly, my captors haven't taken notice to my stirring, and are babbling about some nonsense in a strange dialect, one not familiar to my own tongue. Soon, however, I begin understanding, their language translating in my mind with what little archives of magick my body supplies. _At least that part I don't have to control,_ I think as I gently flex each of my fingers as to make sure they are still there. _Else I'd be more lost than a Frost Giant in Asgard's castle. Without a guide._

The thought of a Jötun wandering about in my old home sends soft bits of amusement through me, but are mercilessly killed off by the memories that flash behind my eyes of the angry Asgardians that left me in the hands of whatever creatures living on this realm. I attempt to move again and another grunt comes from me. The metallic taste of blood floods over my tongue once more, and I spit it out, hating the taste, as if my own blood could mock me for being the helpless lump of a god I am now.

This time, however, the ones who hold me captive notice my stirring, and their words become clearer in my dim sense of hearing.

"…Think he's waking up!"

"…Fell from the sky. Don't know how he survived that."

"Is he dangerous?" Worry tinges this one's voice, and I can feel their gaze flicker to me.

"I don't think so. Doc says he's badly injured." The same voice from the beginning, the one calling to me after I fell. At least he acknowledges my injuries. Though what stops them, I'm not sure.

"What I don't understand is why the Director brought _him_ here." A higher pitch above the bass of the others.

"…No help at all…" Nothing but a mutter to my ears.

The voices fade in and out, and I briefly wonder if the higher pitched voice – I assume it is female – speaks of me. However, as the last voice speaks, I know she does not, but of some other nuisance.

And there I knew, before even having to open my eyes to see the ones surrounding me that I was on the middle realm. The one I'd hated for its simpleminded inhabitants, the one I'd thought was obviously more insignificant than even the Jötun realm. I realised with a growing anger that Heimdall had sent me to Midgard as my punishment.

I allow my eyes to slide open and furrow my brows as the piercing light burns them even though I have only opened them a crack. A few gasps sound around me, and I can hear the scurrying of those who were speaking earlier. I snort as I can vaguely scent fear from the one who questioned their own safety. But as I attempt once more to move, I am greeted by a sharp stabbing pain in my arms, my torso, and one of my legs. _I'm broken,_ I want to mutter to the stupid Midgardian. _What harm am I going to cause you that won't affect me in turn?_

However my awareness doesn't last long as an icy current slides its way through one of my injured arms and throughout my entire body. The last thing I feel is the pain dulling where my injuries are most dire and am afterwards dredged in the darkness that always seems to wait for me as I sleep, submerged in the hollowness of my dream world.

* * *

I hear once more the sounds of the voiceless screams that plague me in my sleep and I am terrified. I can hear the piercing shrieks of those unknown to me, their sounds crawling up the flesh of my arms, quite literally. My body refuses to acknowledge the need to move, to run, and instead stays still, allowing me to watch in horror as the skin on my arms writhes, then suddenly bursts open.

Blood is everywhere.

I can taste it, can feel it on my body. The muscles ripple where the skin has broken, and my fingers start twitching uncontrollably.

The screams grow louder.

I am forced to watch my body rip itself open, all but my face, and my ears begin to bleed. My torso is naught but bone and muscle, each throbbing movement causing more of the crimson stuff to spurt out of my body.

I part my lips to let out a scream of my own, and am jarred into my true existence in the real world.

* * *

My eyes flutter open and my breathing is stunted, partially by the wounds I have sustained in my torso, partly because of the shock. My eyes sting, but I grit my teeth behind my lips, forcing myself to cope with what horrors now repeat in my waking mind. A few more Midgardians speak, but this time I do not bother to attempt to decipher their choppy dialect. Instead I am focussing on my surroundings. For what I can figure out, my arms are still loosely secured in the Odincuffs, which, needless to say, angers me quite a bit. After all, what good are they now, with no magick to suppress behind their metal grip. I attempt to move, but my body is angled in an awkward position and the pain from my simple movement causes me to take in a sharp breath.

"Oh," I mutter, my voice naught but a raspy breath, causing the mortals to bring their eyes on me, and me to want to stab them out. "that is new." I refer to the pain I feel, for I have never felt any-thing quite like it.

The Midgardians widen their eyes, as if not expecting this once Asgardian to speak, not true words spoken in their ugly language. I stave off the urge to roll my eyes at their surprise and attempt to move once again.

And a smooth voice slices through the small murmurs that have begun to echo around me as I have spoken, making me stop in my painful struggles.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you."

"And so it is a good thing that you are not," I retort, rolling my eyes _this_ time before craning my head towards where I hear the voice. Pain in my neck stops me from turning all the way, so I settle for just moving my eyes.

"Good for who? You? Or me?" I find the face, the mouth moving with the words spoken. He is slim, as I am, with dark hair and blue eyes. He wears dark clothes with some sort of emblem on it. I resist the urge to reply and instead let my own eyes fall over the broken mass of my body. I resist the urge to retch. How did I become this way? This weakness, brittleness of my body, crumpled by a single fall. It brings a sour taste to my tongue and I curse softly, the ancient words sweeping from my lips and into the ears of those who listened closely enough.

"You've noticed then, I take it, that you're really in no position to move. Or speak."

The voice breaks my thoughts, and I brace the pain to scowl up at him. "I'd rather you quelled your words. They make my head ache."

The man ignores me and continues.

"Risky fall, huh? Where did you come from?"

"I suppose you will hear nothing but the answers you desire." My tone is tasteless.

"Your little light beam forget you halfway?" He continues to ignore me.

"And what of my condition? Do you not attempt to heal those who break their bodies from tremendous falls before you question them?" My voice rises, overlapping his query with one of my own. The extra force I am required to put into my voice hurts me, and I wince.

"Y'know, the guy does have a point," comes another voice, unmistakably male. I turn to see the voice's face. He too has dark hair, though it is lighter than the other's. His eyes are brown, and around his mouth grows facial hair that is strangely styled in my eyes.

This coming from one of the few male Asgardians without such.

In his hand is a glass of some sort of amber liquid, and he looks dressed for occasion. He speaks again, momentarily distracting me from guessing what his purpose is.

"How would you feel if you suddenly fell halfway through your light beam o' destiny and were captured by weirdo freaks who kept asking you questions?" The man takes a sip from his glass before continuing. "Speaking of, who _are_ you weirdoes, any-ways?"

"Mr Stark, remember that you are only hear to deliver your weapons to the director and—"

"Uh-huh. But guess who said I could come visit your poor mistreated visitor?" the man called Stark retorts, his gaze travelling to the other man with the blue eyes. "Thaat's right. Now make yourself useful and fix this guy up."

Wordlessly, the other male complies, shouting orders to those who surround me. I relax a bit, only to realise grimly that the one called Stark has stayed behind. I furrow my brows in question before asking him in a hoarse voice, "Is there something I can assist you with?"

To that, he chuckles, and I briefly consider believing this man is more insane than I. "No, not really. You're the one who needs assistance. Oh, yeah, and maybe some manners? I mean, I _did_ kinda just help you. And lied for you. Definite lying happening here. And these fools believe it!" He takes another draught of his drink, and I blink as I take in his words. Lying? "They'll believe just about any-thing, especially if their beloved _director_ is included in it." He speaks as though he has had previous experience in such situations.

"I see," is all I can manage to rasp. The pain I feel whilst talking has intensified, to say the least, and I grow weary from the exertion.

"Not even a thank-you," he responds with a curt laugh. "figures. You don't strike me as the thankful type. Am I wrong?" I feel his eyes bore into me, as if demanding an answer, though softly.

I nod, the knot in my neck making me wince once again. My mouth stays shut, and my eyelids begin to droop.

"Once they're done, there's no doubt in my mind they're going to pepper you with questions. Might even lock you up in, well, I dunno, space jail I guess. But that's if you're a hostile threat or whatever." He snickers, as though the thought of me being hostile some-how amuses him.

I bite back an angry reply as he continues.

"Worst-case scenario, they'll probably ship you off into the outside world if they don't see you as a potential threat. Which means, I guess, that they'll be watching you? I don't even know who these people are."

His voice begins to irritate me now. _I just want to sleep, can he not see that?_ But apparently he can-not. Thankfully, the original captors have returned, for surely Stark would have talked my ears off. The man who demanded answers from me approaches Stark with hesitance.

"We're going to have to ask you to leave," comes his shallow words. "at least until we are finished. If you wish to speak to the prisoner, then you may personally walk him to the conference room."

Stark just laughs and raises his glass in some sort of salutation for fare-well. "I'll see ya when I'll see ya!" And then he turns, allowing himself to be ushered out of the room I am in. Too soon am I greeted once more by the icy feeling spreading from my arm and coursing through my body.

Too soon am I placed into the prickly arms of the world of my haunting dreams, the recurring memories playing even in my wakefulness.

Too soon for me to beg and rasp out my shallow plea, that I do not sleep.

* * *

The nightmares rip me apart, tear at my soul each time I close my eyes. My wounds from previous times fester and I bite my tongue to keep myself from screaming in shock and disgust. A jarring at my ribs, my eyes flooding over with a red film, before it slowly fades to black, as I feel it do so to my veins.

My arms bend at awkward angles, my legs are clawed at by the vicious darkness, as if to release it from my body. A pressure on the back of my neck tells me not to turn around, for fear that the thing that possesses me—for I am sure now that it does—has reared its head and awaits my eyes, eyes that are blind to all.

Something pushes its way into my side and I attempt to feel at it, only to find that my arms in their strange positions, are being restrained by the same creature that holds my neck.

_You can-not escape_, a voice echoes in my mind, one that I have never heard, nor has a clear sound. _You can never escape, Loki. Your body forever harbours this darkness. It is a part of you._

I shake my head. It isn't. It never was.

Yet my visions of the redness, the blood that courses through my veins, twisting with black return to me. Is this what the voice means? What it tells me? Or is it worming its way into my very core? Trying to defeat me from the inside out, so that I have no means of controlling myself, should it take my body?

This time, my screams echo through my room as I awake, eyes bursting open with shock and anger and fear, fear coiling in my abdomen and my arms and legs.

I take a few gasping breaths, and as I do so, I realise that it is easier for me to breathe. My arms are unscathed, save for a few minor scratches and bruises. I am laying on my back, and I see my chest rise and fall normally, no bone jutting out of my pale skin. I wear a thin piece of cloth that covers the majority of my body, and I take a moment to feel the wholeness.

Though I know this peace shall never last, as it never does, I slowly sit up, awaiting those who must ask their questions.

However, my mind is overflowing with confusion, as the one named Stark is the only one who appears.

His drink is gone, and his expression is soft and tentative, as though he looks at a small creature. There is no doubt about it now. My stomach sinks with dread as he carefully approaches me, holding a hand out as though to help me.

I fear my scream that pitched me into the world of the waking was not the solitary noise I made while unconscious. The worry in the other man's eyes clearly states this.

What I want to know, however, is why I see curiosity in those brown orbs. Does this man, who barely knows me, want to know what happens when I sleep? Does he wish to figure out what keeps me up all night, past the point of tiredness?

Does he want to know of the darkness I harbour within my bloodstream, a darkness that refuses to let me go, and promises to take over once my defences are cast away?

* * *

_**A/N: Sorry for the wait, though I doubt any-one really cares. Because, well, it was only one chapter. I have been waiting for the internet to be turned back on, as well as experiencing a little bit of at home issues. Though, not to worry! I have the internet and my laptop has graced me with it's love again! **_

_**Onward, updates!**_

_**-KL**_


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